Spirited
by dreykar
Summary: From a young age John realised that not everyone could see the cold people. That's what he called them as the room would often chill before they would appear or there were the times he happened to touch them and the icy feeling would chill him to his bones.


A/N: This is my first story in a year a half. I think I may have found some inspiration again but it has been difficult. Please enjoy :)

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From a young age John realised that not everyone could see the cold people. That's what he called them as the room would often chill before they would appear or there were the times he happened to touch them and the icy feeling would chill him to his bones.

They weren't there all the time, it wasn't as though there was a constant battle to tell who was real and who was 'one of those'.

They were just a part of life, as certain as Christmas coming in December or the mad rush to pack before family trips no matter how much time you had

The way he processed it was that there was the shadow he used to see moving around the shed at his grandma's house. The little girl under the tall oak at his old primary school, everything below her shoulders was always faded out. There was the bad feeling he used to get at the doctor's office, just the one consulting room. Then there was the man at his cousin's house who only came out at night and left bruises on his arms and only left if he screamed loud enough to call others.

As he grew he was able to distance himself from it but there was no leaving it behind.

After Afghanistan he felt a little closer to their world: colder, sadder and drained. He hoped it was just in his head, that it was just a symptom of the other things going on in his life.

Once he met Sherlock Holmes and fell into the madman's crazy world things were warmer, happier and had more energy. The people were still there though and how do you explain that to someone?

Around two weeks into their new life together Sherlock and John are sitting at the table eating breakfast. Well, John is eating, the detective is draining his second cup of tea for the day having been awake all night.

Sherlock is eyeing John, pursing his lips before breathing deeply through his nose. "What's wrong with the flat? There's something about the flat that unsettles you".

John finishes swallowing his toast before looking his friend directly in the eye and determining the best answer. He realises only honesty should be used. "I usually prefer to live in a building a bit more modern. One with less history, you know. It's fine-this-" the wave of his hand seems to encompass not only 221b but their new arrangement together "-is fine. Don't worry about it"

"Something about it bothers you" he murmours, leaning back in his chair and tenting his hands below his chin, ready to solve this new puzzle.

"I wish you were as perceptive about what needs to be tidied around here". But there was no response.

That day John had been honest, there really wasn't a feeling of activity around the house. Obviously it felt like an old place, but he didn't consider himself psychic, he didn't really feel an energy around things. No, he wasn't strange, it's just every so often he saw or experienced ghostly activity.

It was around the time of the case he'd go on to name as 'The Blind Banker'. The kitchen started to get a 'funny' feel. Just something that didn't sit quite right. Sherlock had been a bit bored and had been doing a number of experiments and he wondered if perhaps there was something he was using that he was allergic to or something along those lines. A thing that gave him a slight reaction.

It was when he found Sherlock using pliers to remove the fingernail from a severed hand he realised where the feeling was coming from. Whoever that belonged to wasn't fully haunting them but they were around in a way.

"What are you doing?" John demanded, slamming the shopping onto the floor in front of the fridge.

Sherlock paused and look up immediately, mouth slightly open as though he were a small child caught eating biscuits before dinner. He quickly moved his features into a look of defiance. "Experiment. I do experiments".

"Right. And this can't happen at the hospital? Wait- you did get this from Bart's didn't you?"

"Yes, it's from Bart's" the detective snapped, why did people always assume the worst? "Wait-where are you going?"

"Out. Somewhere. I'm going out. I've been meaning to have a pint with Lestrade, I'll see if he's free"

"Tell him I saw his wife-"

"-going now". At this John swept out of the room and stomped down the seventeen stairs. If it wasn't enough he slammed the front door as he left.

Sherlock thought things through for a moment then continued. Most people would have left for good at that, John was only popping out for an hour or two. All in all that went well.

Soon after this situation one night they were walking back from dinner across a bridge when John stopped listening to Sherlock talking about something from his university days. He saw a man around his early twenties standing on the ledge, holding himself up on a lamppost embedded in the handrail as he sobbed with great despair.

Sherlock noticed John's expression and stopped talking, looking from his friend's face to where he was looking. "John, what is it? What's wrong?"

Walking closer was when the doctor noticed that he could see the lights on the other side of the river through the man's jacket. Ghost. He sighed as he heard the man's anguished wails, knowing that there was nothing he could do. This was just a reply of past events.

"Thought I saw something" he replied in an empty tone, averting his gaze from the jumper. "The light was playing tricks".

"John?" Sherlock began softly, eyes moving from side to side as he tried to see what his friend saw.

"Come on, if we hurry I can catch the end of the match on the telly".

He knew that it wouldn't be much longer that he could keep his secret from Sherlock but he was able to for a little longer.

It was the day of the 'gas leak' explosion on Baker St, mid afternoon. They had both been snapping at each at other all day. Sherlock was in what John would learn to be one of his black moods, his 'bored' moods.

Everything the other did set off a reaction. John said he'd do the washing but Sherlock wouldn't get out of the pyjamas that he'd been in for the last three days so nothing was done.

Sherlock asked if John could pick up milk the next time he was out. It led to a half hour argument about how far the shops were in walking steps of all things. Sherlock was adamant it was a better form of exercise for John as his legs are shorter.

The flat was freezing, they had the fire going and the thermostat on full.

By 3pm John couldn't take the atmosphere any longer. "Going for a walk. Be back later". He didn't think Sherlock even heard him.

A few hours later when John found the head in the fridge the anger and unsettledness in them both started to make more sense. Once it was removed things went back to normal. Yes, Sherlock was a lot better because he had a case but John and everything in general was calmer.

After they'd dealt with 'The Woman' Lestrade called them in for a murder in a house very similar to the one with 'The Pink Lady'.

As soon as John walked in he could feel chills run down the back of his neck. He stopped walking and Sherlock, who for once was behind him, ran straight into him.

"Watch where you're going, John!" he snapped and walked into the third story living room.

"There you are" Lestrade greeted. "Wondered when you'd show up. Right, here's what we know so far…" he spent the next few minutes going over what they knew about the victim.

It was five minutes before anyone noticed that John wasn't in the room.

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A/N: I hope you've enjoyed this so far. Any feedback would be appreciated, it's been a while since I've written something and I'm trying hard to get back into it. Thank you :)


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